CHAPTER 41: HUNTING

The group spread out cautiously across the boss chamber, torches and light spells flickering against the broken pillars and collapsed debris. The battle had left the place in ruins, but the ground bore older marks too—scratches, drag trails, and dark stains dried into the stone.

Jason crouched down, brushing a fingertip across one of the brown-red patches. "Blood," he muttered grimly.

"That doesn’t mean anything," Lisa said quickly, as if to deny the obvious. "This is a dungeon. People bleed here every day."

"Yeah, but this..." Brandon trailed off, holding up a scrap of cloth he’d found snagged on a jagged rock. The once-blue fabric was shredded, stiff with dried blood.

Amy’s hand flew to her mouth. "That’s—"

Daniel’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer. There was no mistaking it. The tattered cloth bore the insignia of their academy uniform, stitched at the edge. Oliver’s uniform.

For a long moment, silence hung over the chamber. Even Samuel’s stern expression softened, lips pressing into a hard line.

"...No," Sophie whispered, shaking her head violently. "It doesn’t prove anything. He could’ve—he could’ve gotten away—"

"Enough," Daniel said quietly, though his voice was heavy as lead. He closed his fist around the cloth, the knuckles trembling. "This... this is all we’re going to find."

One by one, their gazes fell. The faint spark of hope—the belief that maybe Oliver had escaped somehow—snuffed out completely. What remained was grief, guilt, and for some gloating.

’This is what you get if you try to act out of your place’, thought Andrew.

The bastard trio looked towards each other with knowing glances.

They were glad that Oliver is dead otherwise the fact that they were the one who pushed him would have been revealed.

And now that truth died with his death.

~~~~~~

[Present Time]

In the dense forest, far away from the dungeon, Oliver balanced awkwardly on a wide tree branch. He had a sharpened branch in his grip, whittled into the shape of a spear. His knuckles were sweaty, his expression tight with nerves.

Pressed casually against his back, Isolde leaned in, chin brushing his shoulder. "Now... wait for it to get close. Just when it’s under you, drop down and aim for its head," she whispered.

Below them, a wild boar rooted around in the undergrowth, snorting as it moved closer to their tree.

Oliver scowled, whispering back, "Why the hell are you making me do this? You could kill that thing in two seconds. You’re insanely powerful."

Isolde smirked, voice lilting with mockery. "And how will you survive when I’m not around? You think food just walks into your mouth? This isn’t about strength, Oli. It’s about learning to stoop low, to use tricks. Outsmart, not overpower."

Oliver grimaced. "Are you teaching me... or mocking me?"

Her breath tickled his ear as she leaned closer. "Both," she said sweetly. Then, with a teasing chuckle, "I’m mocking your pathetic strength. You’d be much better off if you let me engrave runes on your body. Just one little carving, and you’d be tearing that boar apart with your bare hands."

Oliver stiffened, whisper-shouting, "No need!" His face flushed, half with irritation, half with nerves.

"Shhh—lower your voice, you’ll scare it away," Isolde hissed, smacking his shoulder lightly. "Focus, human. The prey is almost under us."

Oliver’s grip tightened on the makeshift spear. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. For the first time in what felt like ages, he wasn’t facing death against a monster, but survival in the wild... and somehow, it still felt just as daunting.

The boar ambled closer, snuffling through the leaves below. Its bristled back shimmered faintly in the shafts of evening sunlight. Oliver swallowed hard, sweat trickling down the side of his face.

"Now," Isolde whispered, her voice smooth as silk, "don’t think—just move."

Oliver sucked in a breath, braced his legs against the branch, and leapt.

"Uwaaa—!"

The world spun as he dropped. He aimed the sharpened spear just like she said, but his body was stiff, his arms awkward. The boar’s head snapped up at the last second, eyes widening as Oliver’s shadow loomed over it.

The spear tip hit—just not where he wanted. Instead of piercing the skull, it scraped along the side of the boar’s thick hide, cutting shallowly before snapping in half.

"Shit!" Oliver cursed as he crashed onto the beast’s back. The boar squealed in fury, bucking wildly. Oliver clung on desperately, wrapping his arms around its neck like a man riding a raging bull.

"Oliver!" Isolde called, not alarmed but amused, her laughter ringing through the trees. "Oh, this is priceless!"

"Stop laughing and do something!" Oliver shouted, bouncing violently as the boar slammed into a tree. The impact rattled his bones, and his grip slipped. "I’m gonna die to bacon!"

The boar charged forward, crashing through underbrush with Oliver still clinging on. Branches whipped his face, and panic surged in his chest. On instinct, he did the only thing he could think of—jammed the broken spear shaft into the boar’s eye.

"GUUOOHH!!"

The beast screamed, thrashing in agony, and finally collapsed to the ground with Oliver tumbling off and rolling across the dirt. He lay there panting, arms spread wide, chest heaving.

Isolde strolled over, her long hair swaying as she looked down at him with a smirk. "Messy. Sloppy. Incredibly dangerous." She crouched, poking his forehead with a finger. "But... you won."

Oliver groaned, lifting an arm weakly. "No... the boar... killed itself on my incompetence."

"You exaggerate," Isolde teased, brushing dust off his shirt. Then her tone softened ever so slightly. "For someone without strength, you still managed to find a way. That’s what matters. Remember this feeling, Oli—survival doesn’t have to be pretty."

Oliver sat up slowly, wincing from bruises. He glanced at the slain boar, blood pooling beneath it, and despite his exhaustion... he grinned faintly. "Well... at least dinner’s sorted."

"Mm," Isolde’s eyes gleamed as she straightened. "Leave the butchering to me. You’d probably stab yourself trying."

Oliver shot her a glare. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Isolde only chuckled, snapping her fingers. Shadowy tendrils slipped from the ground, wrapping around the boar and dragging it closer. "Come, human. Tonight, we feast."

The dusk had settled fully, and the already dim sunlight barely reached the forest floor through the canopy above. Long shadows stretched across the ground, and the chill of night was beginning to creep in.

Oliver grunted, struggling to drag the dead boar by its legs. The thing weighed at least twice his own body. Every few steps, he slipped on leaves or roots, muttering curses under his breath.

"Pathetic," Isolde sighed. With a flick of her wrist, the boar lifted off the ground, suspended in midair as though it were weightless. "Just give it a direction. Don’t waste your strength."

Oliver just dropped the boar’s legs, flopping onto his back with a groan. "Yeah, thanks for waiting until I nearly dislocated my shoulder."

They soon found a small clearing—a patch of open ground shielded by tall trees, perfect for camping. Isolde raised her hand lazily, whispering incantations under her breath.

Fwoosh!

A tree trunk fell cleanly, severed by a crescent of wind. Another spell split it into smaller logs, which then floated neatly into place around the clearing, forming a crude circle of seats. The excess branches and bark were stripped away with precision. Within moments, a camp area took shape—perfect firewood stacked in the center, seating around, and even a protective barrier of thick logs marking their boundary.

The entire display was done with Isolde standing in one spot, her hair swaying slightly with each gesture.

Oliver leaned against a trunk, watching. Not even surprised anymore. "You know... I used to think magic was all about flashy explosions. But no, you... you just remodel the damn forest in five minutes."

She turned, smirking with a spark of pride in her eyes. "Well? Impressed?"

"Yeah," Oliver admitted, scratching his head. "I just wonder when I’ll be able to do even half of that."

"In no time," Isolde replied smoothly, her smirk deepening. "Just give me your body."

"Haaah..." Oliver dragged his hand down his face. "There it is again. You really don’t give up, do you?"

"Persistence is a virtue," she teased, winking.

Oliver plopped down onto one of the makeshift seats, muttering, "I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve asked me for my body. And not even in the fun way." He pointed two fingers at the firewood pile. "[Ignite]."

A small spark leapt from his fingertips, catching on the logs. Within seconds, a warm blaze crackled to life, its light painting the clearing in flickering gold. Oliver held his hand out proudly. "Well, I can do this, at least."

Isolde gave him a look that was somewhere between mocking and amused. "Congratulations. You’ve achieved the power of a peasant with flint and tinder."

"Tch." Oliver clicked his tongue, trying not to grin.

Meanwhile, the butchering began. Of course, Isolde didn’t bother to dirty her hands. She raised both arms gently, and two nearby rocks floated into the air. Under her control, the stones sharpened into jagged edges, then spun like blades. They flew down toward the boar’s carcass, cutting through hide and flesh with surgical precision.

Slice by slice, the beast was broken down. Organs floated out in neat piles, bones were separated, and strips of meat landed onto clean leaves as though arranged by invisible chefs.

Oliver stared, chin resting on his hand. "You know, back home, we used knives. Like... actual knives."

"Knives are boring," Isolde replied casually, flicking a bloodied slab of meat onto a leaf. "Why waste steel when the world itself bends to your will?"

"You’re terrifying," Oliver muttered.

"Thank you," she said sweetly, eyes glowing faintly in the firelight.

The smell of raw blood mixed with the campfire smoke, promising a long night ahead.